


Through the Darkness and the Shadows

by squidbubbles



Series: Millory Fairy Tales [1]
Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Canonical Character Death, Demons, Emotionally Constipated Michael Langdon, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Ghosts, Light Angst, Mallory is a Foxxay Child, Past Character Death, Pining, Tags Are Hard, Tags May Change, Tate Langdon is his own damn warning, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, but he's not there for a while, for now, hahahaha
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2019-10-22 17:25:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17666897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidbubbles/pseuds/squidbubbles
Summary: For her mother, Mallory will brave the castle, will fight the demon tooth and nail if she has to. With magic, with bites that sting. Her mother’s presence is faint, but it’s there. She’s alive, if only for right now. She watches the ancient wood creak open, hears her own footfalls on the dark marble. For her mothers’ happiness, she tells herself.For Cordelia, she will do anything.





	1. Chapter 1

“A rose. Please. Zoe said Hawthorne’s are beautiful.”

Mallory isn’t sure what possesses her to ask for it. Madison’s judgemental look only solidifies exactly how strange her request is. Roses are beautiful and stubborn, much like her teachers have professed her to be. She thinks Zoe would appreciate her request, had the other witch still been around. Mallory’s heart tightens at the memory of her. The shadows that fall over Miss Cordelia’s eyes ensures the brunette is not the only one thinking of their missing sister. Even Madison turns her face away.

Zoe is still a sore subject, months after her disappearance.

It’s then that Queenie comments about how the neighboring town won’t know what to do when they see Cordelia’s power and the mood shifts. Yet Mallory can still see the ghost of Zoe hover above them, darkening the laughter just that much more. It’s imperceptible to any who might be watching the small gathering. Cordelia, of course, is as regal as ever, back straight and looking like a queen upon her white horse. Misty is looking at her wife with such fondness Mallory has to avert her eyes, afraid she’s intruding on some incredibly private moment between her parents. Queenie is their entertainment and even Mallory herself is content, a rare thing for her outside of the garden. The only one out of place is Madison, who can’t seem to shake her darkened look. Her head is down and her comments are still too soft, not biting enough to be considered normal. She’ll be questioned later, but now Mallory’s focus is on her Supreme, her mother.

There’s a town on the other side of the mountain, one where warlocks are sent to study. Hawthorne. Mallory has only heard of their fences as tall as trees, wrapped in iron. The entire town is underground, a necessary precaution since their inhabitants aren’t as powerful as those of her own Robicheaux. The Descending City, travelers call it. The Degenerate’s Den, as Great-Aunt Myrtle _oh-so-lovingly_ refers to it. It’s there her mother has to go, to unite the towns against their common enemy, the seemingly sole inhabitant of the castle segmenting the road between the towns. Too weak to appear there, too prideful to have another witch make the journey with her. Cordelia may be the only one to physically cross the road and survive, to escape the danger.

The whispers of the demon that lives in the castle are enough to frighten Mallory, to mutter another protection spell in the horse’s snowy flank. Zoe’s disappearance is the demon’s doing, everyone is certain of it. And it’s there her mother has to pass through, there that Mallory fears beyond anything else. Even her own ascension doesn’t scare her as much as that castle. It’s a godless place filled with fallen brothers and sisters alike. And the danger excites her far more than she would ever admit.

“Come back to me,” Misty says.

“Don’t forget the gifts,” Comes Madison’s voice.

“Don’t die,” is Queenie.

Mallory just sends a prayer skyward. She prays for safe travels, for her fading mother to return no worse than she left, for compassion and understanding from the warlocks. Her prayer continues long after her sisters have left until it’s only her and Misty watching the thicket encased road, long after Cordelia has disappeared. Her other mother’s arms wrap around her shoulders and Mallory laces their fingers together. Cordelia has to come back. Mallory’s not ready to be Supreme, she’s not ready to lose another parent. Not ready to see Misty fall apart.

It’s only when the night wind turns biting that the two return to their house, a fire in the hearth that Mallory plays with. She tries to keep her mind off the fact that her mother might not return, sticking her hand into the flame and keeping the pain and melting skin at bay. If she could reverse her ascension like she does wounds, she could.

Anything to keep Cordelia with her.

 

 -   -    -

 

No one fears when their Supreme doesn’t return within the week.

No, it’s the second week that throws the quiet town of Robicheaux into barely controlled chaos.

Great-Aunt Myrtle seems to be drinking more. Misty is fearful and makes hopeful glances at the entry to the town anytime they pass. Even Queenie doesn’t know how to cheer up their little coven.

She should have been back, the townspeople whisper.

“The demon’s caught her,” Mallory overhears a woman say.

The woman’s friend is worse. “The Lost One did it. I’m sure of it. She’s always been clawing for Supremacy, why should she wait?”

They don’t notice the way Mallory drops her bucket or the grief on her face. What they do see is her retreating skirt and the way the buildings shake around her, responding to her sorrow.

Sixteen days after Cordelia’s departure and the townsfolk are growing harsher. She can feel their eyes on her back, notices the way a room grows quiet when she enters. They’re talking about her, the lost child, the forest girl who should have no right to their Supremacy. _Unnatural,_ they whisper, though they have been whispering that for years now.

A preacher finally gives voice to all the panicked thoughts, the fearful glances. Mallory had trusted him, had caught her attention for his seamless acceptance of magic into the Catholic faith. He had baptized a shivering, young Mallory, nine years old and crying for her parents.

“Just tell us where the body is,” He pleads with her during a sermon. “So we can bury her properly. We know, and you only have to answer to the Lord for your sin. Tell us where Cordelia is and we’ll accept you as Supreme.”

The entire congregation is witness to Mallory’s flight, tears in her eyes and a new weight in her heart.

She confesses her fears to Coco one night, a candle illuminating the two of them wrapped around each other. Coco is brushing the hair away from Mallory’s tear-soaked face before Mallory buries her head into her best friend’s shoulder. She can’t lose another parent to the darkness. Her biological parents had abandoned her and even though Cordelia hadn’t wanted to leave, this feels the same. It’s an ache that rides deep in her chest, a schism that threatens to break her already torn heart.

It’s this that spurs Mallory to leave in the midnight hour, a handwritten apology to her remaining parent. It’s why she leaves her town, her coven, her safety.

It’s how she stands in front of wrought iron gates, heart in her throat. The grounds are cold, and Mallory can see snow as she steps onto the cobblestone path. Stones are cracked beneath her feet, yet there’s no growth to cause it. Spires loom before her and trees guard the entry, sentinels warning her to go back. They whisper that Mallory is lucky to have made it this far, leave now while she still can. She pulls her cloak closer to her and trudges on, ignoring the winter wind that screams at her to _run._

She’s not afraid, she reminds herself even as the black towers strike fear into her heart.

She’s not allowed to be afraid.

At long last, the doors stand before her, impossibly tall and imposing. Iron reinforces them, and Mallory is certain the spiked rivets are more functional than simple decorations. Every part of the castle is made to intimidate, from the demonic gargoyles above to the split stone steps below. Even the winter around her is telling, as it was summer when she left Robicheaux. It’s a place where no light dares to touch, one even the angels forsake.

Mallory’s hand against the frigid door is another warning, but her last one. There’s no going back for her, abandon all hope ye who enter here alone. It sets her heartbeat to an irregular rhythm. But for her mother, Mallory will brave the castle, will fight the demon tooth and nail if she has to. With magic, with bites that sting. Her mother’s presence is faint, but it’s there. She’s alive, if only for right now. She watches the ancient wood creak open, hears her own footfalls on the dark marble. For her mothers’ happiness, she tells herself.

For Cordelia, she will do anything.

 

 -   -    -

 

There’s someone in the castle. Michael can feel it before the spirits around him whisper it. They’re restless when they speak, but now they _scream_. The girl with gold in her hair and her head held high. She’s unafraid, they whisper between each other. She’s exploring as if the castle is hers. The spirits are enraptured, enamored by the girl with flowers in her steps, who leaves summer in her wake.

A witch.

Michael only has a malevolent glee rise up in him. He’ll have another to add to his collection now. They were too stupid to let one of their own live out her days in a cell, of course, the bitches had to send someone to find her. He was doing them a favor, by taking their Supreme. Clearing away the disease, stopping the plague before anyone else was infected.

A need to see the stupid little witch is overwhelming and he appears in shadows close to her, watching her small form retreat through a door. He only catches a hem of a long, dark skirt, a few tendrils of sun-kissed hair. She’s headed to the East Tower.

Michael appears in the shadows next to the long lines of cells. There’s only one occupant now, when his father was king they had been full. His one prisoner, the one he intended to watch fade with a fascinated disgust.

The witches are duller than he thought if they believed they could rescue their Supreme.

He hears the witch’s footsteps before he sees her, just in profile as she round the stair landing. Her course is true and she kneels before her Supreme’s cell, shivering from the cold. He’s still unnoticed, a trick of the light, a whisper in the dark.

The moon finally emerges from its place behind the clouds and he gets a look at his little intruder. The moonlight gives her a silver hue, makes her otherwise tanned skin look otherworldly. The gold in her hair is almost angelic, the roundness to her eyes making her look like a fawn. She’s lost and it shows. How adorable.

Michael wants to destroy her.

“We’re going home,” She says to his prisoner and he’s taken aback by the serenity of her voice.

Odd little witch.

“He’ll catch you too. Leave, before he can find you.”

“I’m taking you home, Mother. He can’t stop me.”

Mother? Oh. _Oh._ Well now, this has just gotten more interesting. She’s not Cordelia’s by blood, no, there are too many stark differences between the two. But she is still a Goode, still part of that damnable line. The next Supreme, if he had to guess.

He’s overcome by a burning need to have her, to keep this intrepid little witch. To end the Goodes and the witches forever, to watch them slowly die out. Without a leader, they’ll wither away or drive themselves into madness. He’ll watch them suffer, knowing that the answer to their prayers is locked away in one of his towers. They’re pathetic without their shepherd, and Michael is overtaken by a sick fascination. What they would do without her, what they would do if he returned her. Not fully, of course. Little tweaks to her until she’s like him, until she destroys her own legacy with her bare hands. It’ll take time and cause her immense pain, but it’ll be worth it.

A rumbling from deep within the castle walls reminds him it’s time he doesn’t have. Something he forgets often.

He scrapes one taloned hand against the stone, alerting the little witch of his presence. Her back tenses and he can taste the fear in the room, although it’s not from her. No, it’s coming from her pathetic Supreme. Fear for her daughter, fear for what he might do to her daughter.

“You’re going to release my mother,” She says. Her eyes are hard as she gazes about the room, looking for him.

Her courage is truly admirable, if moronic. Of course, she’s witch royalty, the spoiled brat is probably used to things being handed to her on a silver platter. Michael remembers what it was like to be knocked off that pedestal. It’s only gentlemanly for him to do the same to her.

“And why would I do that?”

“Because you’ll take me in her place.”

New life floods into the Supreme at that, the sharp taste of her anger nearly flooding Michael’s senses “Mallory! You’ll do no such thing!”

“Mallory,” Michael tries out the name on his tongue, find he enjoys it far more than he expected. But the syllables do not flow correctly, harsh on his tongue, made that way by his distorted voice. He forgets what his voice sounded like, how it would sound without thick fangs and blood full of hellfire burning his skin from the inside out. Wants to hear his human voice around her name.

Shame it’ll never happen.

“No questions of her crime? No bargaining for a lighter sentence? I knew you were stupid, but I did not think you would have this much blind trust in your captor,” He scoffs. “I’m doing you all a favor, containing the plague before it becomes your downfall.”

He can see her waver, that unending confidence flickering. “You won’t move from your stance. I won’t let my mother stay here. It’s the only way we can both get what we want.”

He moves from shadow to shadow. His words follow him, disorienting the little witch. She hasn’t seen him, doesn’t know what she’s gotten herself into. It’ll only be that much more fun when he does reveal himself. Yet, he has to admire her strange brand of courage. No witch has stood up to him like this. They all cower, begging for their lives. ‘ _I have a family’_ or ‘ _Please, you don’t want to do this’_ they grovel, but he treats every single one of them the same. A witch cursed him, so he curses them. Simple, cruel.

But this witch, in particular, will be more fun. She’s so proud, so strong. Michael wants to see what exactly will break her, how far she can bend until she snaps. Cursed and useless like the rest of her sisters.

“Well? Are you going to release my mother?”

His laugh reverberates around the room, twisted and thick and coming as a guttural growl, something inhuman. It cements his place and serves to warn her _exactly_ what she was getting into. That beautiful face of hers pales ever so slightly and her scent changes to something sharper, fear creeping in. Good. She should be afraid.

He regards her again, all doe eyes and soft, pale skin. She’s beautiful. Like a porcelain doll and Michael cannot wait to crack that shiny facade. To see if her core is made of a stronger material or if she’s hollow inside. His tongue runs over his chapped lips, distended by sharp fangs. He could not _wait_ to break her. Break her, shatter her, but keep her alive. Mallory’s his only chance to save himself from eternal damnation.

She tenses, eyes darting about the room again to try and find him. “My life, for my mother’s. Do we have a deal?”

Brave little witch. Stupid little witch. How similar the two were, how easy they overlapped. He gathers the dying Supreme in his magic, clouds of darkness and shadows enveloping the blonde, surrounding her, dropping her off right outside his gates. He smiles, and this he allows Mallory to see. Teeth and fangs, razor sharp and more dangerous than any other predator on the planet.

One of his taloned hands circle her small wrist, the darkness and shadows swirling about them as well. She’s _terrified_ now and it’s exactly what Michael wants, what he needs. His voice comes out low and guttural this time, nightmare fodder for years to come.

_“Deal_.”


	2. vol de feu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so... yeah. I disappeared. And I honestly have no excuse besides real life got intense? I, however, have the next three chapters already written! I couldn't stay away from these two crazy kids, not to mention the end scene from Michael's POV is the first scene I ever wrote for this fic! 
> 
> Happy reading!

 

“You bastard! I didn’t get to say goodbye!”

She pounds at the door to her room, the one he had forcibly transmuted her into, only giving her a glance of his warped, taloned hand before he vanished back into the shadows. Her hands ache from trying to break down the heavy wooden door, the edges scraped raw and red. No lock, no handle, just spelled against her. Her last moments with her mother were spent bartering with the Demon. He truly is one. Heartless and callous and cruel.

She gives the door one last, hard hit before turning, back sliding down against the harsh wood grain. A sigh as Mallory inspects her hands, throbbing with abuse. She’ll bruise soon enough, warped blue and purple. She could heal herself, but it’ll be something to feel, to remember that her captor was unfeeling and clearly not human. But he had given her a room, had hissed to stay in there after his magic had taken Cordelia _somewhere_. Hopefully back to Robicheaux, but Mallory wasn’t naive enough to believe that.

“Are you done hitting the door or are you taking a break?

Mallory’s head snaps up and there’s a girl. There’s a _girl_ on her bed. Casually laying there, acting as if she owns the castle. Long, golden brown hair in the candlelight, a glint in her dark eyes that promises trouble. But there’s something not quite right about her. Her voice is hollow as if she was speaking at a distance. Pale face, sunken cheekbones, and deep-set eyes. She’s a half-painted doll, buttons up the back and a perfect, porcelain finish.

The girl slides off the bed, not even making a single wrinkle in the pristine sheets. Small, barefoot steps as she slinks over to Mallory. She tentatively takes one of Mallory’s swelling hands in her own. The witch wants to recoil. The girl is freezing, her touch like a mound of ice across her skin. It’s just as flawless as the rest of her. Flat, in a way. She seems like she just barely exists, clinging on to her chosen plane of reality. Little parts getting lost, things like blood, like body temperature.

However, her frigid hands are helping.

“You know,” the girl begins, sinking down to kneel in front of Mallory. “He doesn’t like being called names. Makes him-and everyone else- try to break things.”

“I didn’t know anyone else lived here.”

The girl’s laugh is more of a snort, unladylike. It has the odd, dual feeling of making Mallory feel like she’s missed some great joke and a sense of homesickness. It’s the kind of laugh Queenie has.

The other takes her hand away from Mallory. “Living is a strong word to describe what our existence is. I like ‘incarcerated’ better.”

The slip of a girl gets up from the floor, practically glides over to the window. She’s watching the snowfall, a curious tilt to her head. Mallory can’t make sense of this girl. She’s cynical and decidedly improper, but still, hasn’t left Mallory to tend to herself, even had helped stave off the swelling. What an odd girl.

She seems fully captivated by the snow, almost like she had forgotten there was another person there with her. Almost, until: “Do you have a name? I’m Violet.”

“Mallory.”

“Alright, Mallory. We’re gonna get you out of this stupid room,” Violet says, moving from the window to the door, the heavy oak swinging open with barely a touch.

She pauses to look at the witch on the floor. “Do you wanna stay here? They say the castle’s haunted, I can guarantee there are much worse things than the Demon.”

“No! No, I’ll-” Mallory hisses as she stands, her hands tender when she puts the barest amount of weight on them. “I’ll come.”

The girl smirks, disappearing behind the door into the hallway. Mallory has no choice but to follow, but she still keeps her glances wary.

 

-          -          -

 

Mallory doesn’t learn much about Violet, nor the castle. What she does learn of, it’s Violet’s stubbornness.

“He hasn’t destroyed the castle yet.”

“He kidnapped my mother.”

“She was trespassing on the castle grounds.”

“Fine, he intended to kill my mother.”

“Didn’t go through with it, though.”

The first lesson about Violet, she speaks as if there’s a double meaning to everything. The castle, the Demon, even the way she speaks to Mallory has the witch guessing she wants something from her or is trying to get her to do something. But with the nature of Violet, she’ll wait for her to guess on her own or die trying.

That last part, Mallory thinks with a shiver, watching as the suits of armor practically seem to follow her every move, might be an all too real possibility.

Violet’s talking about something, much of which Mallory has tuned out. It’s not that Violet talks much, it’s the castle that’s commanding all of the witch’s attention. Particularly, the grand staircase leading up to a darkened hallway. Shadows seem to be darker here, ominous and sharp. Like they’re trying to cut into the soft candlelit objects around them, to infect them with their own darkness. Yet Mallory is still enraptured. It’s beautiful in its harshness, mesmerizing in the war against the light.

“You’re going up to the West Wing? Alone?”

Mallory stops, finding herself already climbing the staircase. Violet stares at her with those sad eyes, oceans of secrets and melancholy reflected in her irises. Yet she doesn’t stop when Mallory nods, just continues walking through the long corridor. Her feet barely make an imprint of the blood red rug spanning the length of the hallway, her steps making no sound. She continues in her odd fashion until she is out of sight.

Mallory has always found it easier to trespass when there is no one watching.

The darkness grows along with the height. The further she gets, the further the ruin towards the furniture, the walls, even the candelabras. Dark magic grows and festers here, has sunken into every fiber of every piece of furniture, has intertwined itself with the mortar and stones creating its walls. Her heart seems to drop to her stomach, but she still continues on.

Maybe Mallory is too curious for her own good, but she only enters a room when she sees the only two items without claw marks. A beacon almost, the ajar door needing some strength to push it open. The darkness has pooled here, the surroundings a mess of tatters and fallen metal. Yet those two items- paintings, she realizes- are untouched.

They’re pristine, one in beautiful condition and the other glowing with a faint hum of magic, an enchantment not unlike Mallory would have used in Robichaux. The first one details a younger Violet. Only by a year or two, but the artist must have spent a lot of time around her. They had captured a brilliant smile on the girl, her painted counterpart fixed on probably the most beautiful three-year-old Mallory has ever seen. Golden hair, chubby cheeks, bright blue eyes. Siblings, she thinks. There’s something in the little boy’s eyes, a darkness she doesn’t think was just from a lack of skill by the artist.

Her eyes drift to the other painting, the magic one. The painted figure nearly takes her breath away. An older version of that toddler, possibly just a little older than the witch. Plush lips, long golden hair. The man is the sun made into human form, the golden god Apollo come to earth. She reaches up to trace the black frame, trails her fingers to the detailed silver clasp at the god’s throat.

The eyes are what get to her the most, make her turn away. So very blue, almost made more so by the darkness captured within them. Mallory can imagine them as reflecting no light, a sinkhole of color until all you can find are those blue eyes. They stare into her soul, even as her back turns away.

The room extends farther back than she expected. It’s a swirling thing of misery and shadow. The only window seems to be the entry to the balcony, which only opens up to the grey skies and dark storm clouds outside. The light thrown from the fireplace only adds to the shadows, creating shapes of things not there. There is only one item untouched, a single glittering rose in the center. It buzzes with life, the enchantment runs so deep into the flower it practically sings.

Entranced, Mallory steps forward, removing its confining glass case. She’s never seen anything more beautiful in her whole life. The roses in Hawthorne she had idolized for so long are weeds in comparison.

Delicate fingers reach out to grasp the stem. She’s only focused on the elegance in front of her, doesn’t notice the way the shadows pool behind her, nor the growl that carries on every draft in the castle. Her hand finally touches the rose. Sharp thorns draw pinpricks of blood, but she can barely feel it.

Almost immediately her wrist blossoms in pain. There is a hand clenched around it, dragging her away from the rose and towards her assailant. The pain only intensifies as she’s drawn closer, the tips of those talons she had briefly seen drawing rivulets of blood from her arm.

“What part of ‘stay there’ do you not understand?!” The Demon’s grip tightens with the rise of his voice. “Do you know what you could have done?!”

Mallory cannot focus on his words. Fear courses through her as she sees The Demon in the dim light, fully exposed to her. Skeletal wings extend out from behind him, useless but so very intimidating, cracked skin parting to show dried blood and ivory bone. He towers above her, draped in an all black robe that covers how many more deformities she has not seen.

And his face… It’s a mockery of a beautiful man. A jawline and cheekbones that could cut glass, golden skin. But everything else is wrong. Plush lips are distended by fangs, his forehead marred by two curling horns that end in lethal points. The eyes are the void personified, a place from which no light can escape.

And yet, so very mesmerizing. She can’t tear her gaze away, no matter how hard she tries.

“You stupid witch! Is this why you came?” He is half mad now, a wild thing. “To finish what _she_ had started?”

“Get off of me!”

Mallory attempts to wrench out of his grip, only to cry out when his talons sink deeper into her arm. A sharp pull and she is uncomfortably close, enough to see multiple rows of teeth when he opens his mouth to speak.

“You’d do well to think about your answer. Or I won’t be as merciful as I have been.”

There is nothing about this creature that is merciful, nothing inside him that hints of compassion. He only responds to force.

“Well? Are you going to admit your guilt?” He hisses.

“I said to get off of me!”

The fire roars the same time Mallory screams, the surprise of the flame startling the Demon enough to release his grip.

The witch wastes no time in tearing down those stares she entered, ignoring Violet’s cry for her on her way down. She thinks nothing of her agreement with the Demon, only reaches forward with her magic to blast open the front doors and tears into the night, away from this hellhole.

What she misses in her flight is the soft shake of the wings of the Demon, the flames fizzling out. Nor does she see the gentle way he replaces the glass case of the rose, how his deformed hands almost reverent around the clear surface. How he curls himself over the case as if the rose is his only lifeline.

What she does notice is the rumble within the castle as a petal falls, the way the stone seems to shriek with rage. Mallory only clutches the latch of her coat and runs faster, grateful to finally be rid of this godforsaken place.

  
  
-          -          -  
  
  


“You’ve made her hate you.”

“I’m aware.”

“She’s not coming back.”

“Still very much aware.”

“She was your last chance.”

Michael’s hand curls and a series of daggers embed themselves in the wall. The metal reverberates through the halls and the small burst of anger should be cathartic. It only makes him wish Violet would come closer, so he could carve her up _properly_. “Do you have a point to all this? I doubt she’ll listen even if I ask her to return.”

He watches the ever-present smirk of his sister grow wider, the daggers having passed right by her. She was all too used to his tantrums. Violet is one of the few he unwittingly damned, long before that fucking witch ever stepped foot in the castle. It’s her he regrets, her he wishes to send away. Violet deserves the pearly gates of St. Peter, not this pathetic existence. Watching her home crumble, her one remaining family member destroy himself in the process.

“Then make her return,” is her tight-lipped response, mischief in her eyes.

He stalks to the balcony, watches the dark form of the witch run out into the woods, black cloak trailing behind her like a beautiful stain on the fresh snow. His salvation was a fading form, disappearing into the thicket of trees.

And he let Mallory leave.

Mallory, Mallory, Mallory. It was clear she would be hard to break, probably impossible. Resilient in her will to live, her curiosity, her stupidity. Even faced with death, with _him_ in all his grotesque glory, she still stood up to him. He needs her, but with this…

He might want her as well.

He can feel the ice-like touch of Violet’s hand upon his shoulder, can tell she’s joined him by the haunting cold spot on his right side. She sees something in Mallory, something Michael needs to set them free. Her own stubbornness to be saved is what fuels her belief that even Michael can find love. She always was a hopeless romantic. It’s what got her killed, after all.

She watches Mallory go, head cocked in thought. “She could be good for you. She could be your savior.”

“You mean she’ll be your savior. You only want to break the curse to save your own soul,” He hisses.

“Quit lying to yourself. You need her as much as I do.” The presence backs away, Violet retreating back into the room. There was a time where she would hiss and bite back just as much as he did, to meet every would-be killing blow with a snarky comment and a foul word. Now she just accepts it, there’s not much fight left in her.

Like all things, that blame rests upon Michael.

A far too familiar wail pierces the silence between the siblings and Violet goes rigid. It’s the one thing the two of them can agree on, the one _person_ they can hate equally. It’s pitiful, how the shade wails for his sister, how they can do nothing without her.

“Just think about it,” Violet whispers, before fading into the darkness altogether.

He watches the space she had occupied for far too long. Indecision roots him, but one last glance at the falling snow makes his path clear. Michael calls upon the darkness, the shadows to find her, stepping through them like one might a doorway. He needs Mallory alive to free Violet, may as well make sure she doesn’t kill herself by tripping over a hidden tree branch.

He won’t admit that he needs her as well.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This is my first Millory fic, so I hope you all like it and please please let me know what you think! 
> 
> Also, because this is BATB AU, the first few chapters will follow the original story heavily, until we get past the wolf attack. Then it is all my own worldbuilding and wherever these two crazy kids decided to take us. Have fun!


End file.
